As the situation in Europe worsens by the day, Winston has been sleeping at the Admiralty all week. The Royal Navy remains at station and, although largely secret, plans for a full military mobilization in the event of war are moving ahead at a pace. Guarded by their Royal Marines, Clemmie and the children and Jack and his family are still at their holiday cottages in Overstrand.
Courtesy of Sir Edgar and Lady Speyer, the Churchills are able to speak to one another by telephone almost every day. When they do so, because Winston fears that German spies may be monitoring their calls, they speak in a childish code they have invented for themselves. They use ‘Old Block’ for Asquith, the Germans become ‘Cabbages’, the Irish are ‘Spuds’ and the British ‘Bowlers’. Ships become ‘Rum Buckets’ and the army ‘Blenheim Tinnies’ and so on.
They also write to one another daily, their letters being sent by military courier to ensure security.
Darling Cat,
As I write, I am looking over the Admiralty’s splendid curtain wall into Whitehall, where London is at peace. How strange it is. It is Friday evening, approaching midnight, the usual revellers have made their way home at least an hour ago. The mood is increasingly sombre here, all I can see beneath the gas lights are shadows. It is an eerie scene.
Eddie Grey and I had dinner with the PM in Downing Street tonight. The company was excellent, as was the claret, but the food was dire. The Old Block is a fine PM, very generous with his fine wines – which, I swear, he can consume more of at a sitting than I can – but he has the palate of a street urchin! Probably a result of his humble Yorkshire origins, bless him.
The OB was serene as always and Eddie G said again how grateful he was that I rushed back to see him last weekend. He made a point of asking me again to pass on his gratitude to you for your forbearance in disrupting our family weekend.
We talked quite a bit about my conversation last week with the Hamburg shipping magnate, Herr Ballan, who I don’t think you’ve met. It was no coincidence that I was placed next to him at dinner. We all agreed that he was clearly on a fishing mission instigated by the Kaiser. Ballan is a charming chap in a Teutonic sort of way, but I made it clear to him that we were ready to fight if cornered, or if our friends were compromised. He will certainly have taken my words directly back to the Kaiser. Perhaps it will deter the bugger.
That the Austrians have rejected the Serbs’ acceptance of almost all their draconian terms is extraordinary. What do they want – blood? Of course they do! I see war as inevitable. The house of cards is stacked high and the slightest quiver will bring it crashing down. Make sure those marines are close to hand and have their eyes peeled and ears pinned back.
The world’s markets are stuttering to a halt, credit can’t be had anywhere. There’s panic in Threadneedle Street. The Bank Rate is at 8 per cent and Lloyd George says it will go higher. By the way, LG is playing a canny game, clever as buggery; his status in the party is rising all the time. The Stock Exchange closed its doors this morning. Thank God we have very little invested.
The Cabinet is split, more than two-thirds for peace; only Eddie and I want to take a belligerent line. But the mood of pacification won’t last. As soon as the first shots are fired, the complacency will evaporate. I’m hell-bent on us defending ourselves at the first act of aggression. How strange I am: the preparations for war and this mood of impending mayhem hold an awful fascination for me. How dreadful that I am made this way. But I am, and that’s that.
The Germans are playing a spiteful and cunning game. They are asking what our reaction would be if they promise not to take French territory – just a few of France’s colonies for indemnity – what a nerve! They say they will not invade Holland but make no mention of Belgium, which is their obvious route to Paris. Eddie Grey has written to inform them, in no uncertain terms, to bugger off. They say they just want to bloody some French noses, but believe me, my darling, their real aim is to recreate the Holy Roman Empire with the Austrians and then strike east against the Czar.
The problem is this: will our position make the situation better or worse? My view is simple. If we let them go ahead with impunity, they may well succeed and we will be faced with a continental monster as formidable as Napoleon and his Grande Armée. We must support the French at the outset and kill the creature before it can grow to the height of its power.
My darling, I’m so sorry for the diatribe. But the situation is grave, and I know you understand.
To matters more mundane. I have sent you a cheque for Pear Tree. Please have Jack scrutinize the account. I’m concerned that our bills for this month alone are over £150. The bank will be on my back again. Hodges – the weasel! – wrote to me the other day, telling me that he had received two cheques which pushed us beyond our overdraft limit. He asked what I expected him to do with them. So I wrote a little note on the bottom of his letter and posted it back to him. It just said, ‘Pay them, man!’
If it goes quiet from me for a while, it will be because the balloon has gone up. But know that I will be thinking of you and the kittens every hour of every day.
Burn this letter, dearest one.
With all my love, my darling Cat, from your ever loving, lonely husband,
Pug
After Winston finishes his letter to Clemmie, he retires to his bed on the top floor of the Admiralty, but is unable to sleep, even after he has poured himself a hefty cognac. Eventually, he decides to get some air and take a stroll across Horse Guards and into St James’s Park. He is accompanied by John Gough, a Special Branch serjeant, who is assigned to him whenever he is in London.
The night is warm, the sky clear and the moon is waxing well beyond its first quarter, casting long shadows across Horse Guards. Lights are burning brightly in Downing Street and the Foreign Office, but Winston is certain that the Prime Minister’s will not be one of them. Herbert Asquith, the sturdy Old Block, will be sleeping the sleep of the just as he always does, despite the presence of his mistress beside him.
When they reach the lake in St James’s Park, Winston sits down on a bench. He sighs.
‘Serjeant, do you have one of those new battery torches with you?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Good, then shine it over there, in the bushes, below Duck Island Cottage.’
There is a sudden flurry among the reeds, just where the serjeant is directing his beam.
‘Look, just there; see how beautiful they are.’
With two tiny balls of grey fluff frantically trying to keep pace with them, a pair of black swans, their twin cygnets in tow, come scuttling out from the foliage.
‘I’ve been watching them for a few days. Is there a more beautiful creature in the whole world?’
‘No, sir, very fine they are.’
Winston asks his minder to switch off his torch and beckons to him to sit beside him. They watch the family of swans circle for a while, as the adults look for a new refuge for the night.
‘Where is home, Serjeant?’
‘Ah, Deptford docks, the site of the knighting of Sir Francis Drake. And where Raleigh laid down his cape for Elizabeth I.’
‘My goodness, sir, you know your history! I was born right by the docks.’
‘What days those were, Serjeant, when the Royal Navy stood bulwark against the mighty Armada. I fear we face exactly the same predicament today.’
‘Will there be war, sir?’
‘Yes, Serjeant, I think we will be at war by the end of the week.’
The serjeant takes a breath and turns to his charge.
‘Well, sir, in that case, shouldn’t we get you back to the Admiralty?’
Winston smiles at the apposite remark and springs to his feet.
‘Quite so, Serjeant. Let’s make haste to our battle stations.’